This is what the children would shout after school during our long treks homeward in the blistering Accra heat. When emboldened, I would sometimes shout the word with them, and if the spirit β or whatever force guided the actions of the intended target β moved that day, a man would emerge from the bushes and growl. And if he were particularly vexed by our taunting, he would chase usβ¦but only so far.
When he got to the junction where the woman sold roasted corn and dried coconut, he would abruptly turn back, as if his progress was impeded by some invisible force-field.
On one particularly hot day when our incessant taunts were not enough to draw him from his reclusion, our little troupe gave up on our tyrannous mission and trudged to our houses.
After weeks of carrying on with this shameful behavior, curiosity finally caught up with me. What exactly was I participating in, and why? Dirty and seemingly indestructible, it seemed like every residential area had a mentally infirm man who roamed and ruled their own stretch of road. Each mad man had his own tic.
Some were harmless, completely satisfied to sit in solitude under trees staring blankly into the sky or muttering to themselves as they shuffled through the community.
